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Daddy Takes Me and Sally for a Ride in His Shiny Red Silverado
Daddy takes me and Sally for a ride in his shiny red Silverado. Sally’s ginger curls are tied back in a blue ribbon. She has on the blue gingham dress I gave her for her birthday. She sits on the bench seat between me and Daddy.

“Penny for a smile,” Daddy says to Sally, chuckling.

She giggles. I step on her white shoe a little and pretend to slide away from her on the seat.

“Watch it, Jennifer,” Daddy says, “I’m trying to drive. There will be no more white stuff for you if you cause me to crash our big red Silverado, you know.”

“Oh, no, Daddy, no!”, I say.

I look at Sally. She’s smiling.

“Look, Mr. McLean, here’s your smile,” she says.

I press on her foot again.

“Ow, Jennifer,” she says.

“That’s a beautiful smile, Sally,” Daddy says. He puts his hand on her bare knee.

“Where’s my penny?” Sally asks.

“Oh, you’ll be getting a lot more than that later,” he says to her.

“Really?” Sally says. She’s clearly excited. I become enraged and start crying uncontrollably, banging my head against the dashboard.

“Jennifer, watch out. You’ll ruin your hair and the car! I won’t give you the white stuff if you do that either.” Daddy says.

“Jennifer, what’s wrong?” Sally asks me. I spit on her face. She wipes it off and starts to cry. Daddy gets excited when little girls cry so he’s about to shoot the white stuff in his pants I guess, and I really won’t get it. I grab hold of one of her ringlets and pull so hard it comes out of her head. She’s hysterical and Daddy’s pants are drenched. He pulls over at a highway rest stop to use the bathroom. When he’s out of sight I get out of the Silverado and tell Sally to get out. I kick her in the knees so that she falls down.

“You’re not getting my white stuff!” I say to her.

I start kicking Sally underneath the SUV next to Daddy’s truck. He comes back, refreshed.

“Where’s Sally?” he says.

“Sorry, Daddy, it happened again now.”

“Oh, Jennifer, not again! I really wanted to stretch Sally out too. That’s too bad. It’ll be the hard punishment for you.”

Daddy looked so manly as he climbed out of the car again and fetched the shovel from the back. I could see his huge rod swell in his wet pants as he dug the hole later in the woods. Sally always liked the woods, so I guess that little bitch will be happy there. Nobody rides Daddy’s pole but me.

Nietzsche predicted two centuries of nihilism, and we are still comfortably within that time period. Fragments shows evidence of the process he described.

Psychological nihilism is attained when we, first, note that there is no “meaning” behind all events, second, that there is not even a unity of becoming, thirdly, that there is no alternative “truer” metaphysical world behind the shabby garbage in which we live. “Aim”, “unity”, and “truth” are not categories that are suitable to describe our existence. The world is not without value for this reason, but these three categories are not the ones to use in the impending transvaluation that Nietzsche requested. “We have measured the value of the world by categories that refer to a purely fictitious world.” (All quotes from Nietzsche are from The Will to Power.)

This nihilism is naturally a consequence of a shame at having been fooled by all the religious nonsense that has afflicted humanity for so long as an infantile disorder. Chesler was raised without religion but in an environment that saw economic well-being as some sort of alternative, grubbing together money for no real reason, an unthinking acceptance of societal values in that respect. Anyway, nihilism is not a modern or postmodern phenomenon. Heidegger points out that Nietzsche sees it as “not a Weltanschauung that occurs at some place or other; it is rather the basic character of what happens in Occidental history.” The development of nihilism will occupy the coming centuries, especially where it seems that opinions are the opposite of nihilistic. As Heidegger says, and this is not contrary to what Deleuze says, the counter-movement to nihilism is within nihilism.

The homo mensura thesis has been used to judge the world according to categories that are driven by considerations of gross utility, designed to improve “human constructs of domination”. But “man” is not the measure; “man” is a cunt.

Fragments depicts an entire teratology, a menagerie of grotesques and freaks – from the stupid transsexual comedian to the mythological creature Little Jack, who is an allegory of empty homoerotic desire. (It’s a labor of love fucking yourself to death.)

Extreme nihilism is an empowerment, to use a grotesque neologism. It is admittedly still a “pathological transitional stage” to the transvaluation of all values, and Fragments shows the great strength of the intellect. In an as yet unpublished novel, An Honest Day of Blowjobs, Chesler describes a vision that can represent a goal of understanding, mental development, and a Foucauldian ideal of ascetic self-development (intellectual discipline) as an alternative. To Nietzsche, maybe, this might lie too close to Schopenhauer’s will-less contemplation. But this is a form of the eternal return, the epiphany that changes nothing, satori that leaves everything exactly the same. For in The Will to Power Nietzsche introduces the eternal return as a consummation of nihilism, and the nauseating ugliness of human nature is a tiny film of bullshit over the fiery beauty of atoms and the void, and it is the cosmogenic wheel to which we consent, not the scumbags stumbling through their superficial illusion.

This return, as Deleuze points out, is the chaos in destiny, the arbitrary in necessity. We do not seek homeostatic equilibrium, the world is burning and most things are too ugly for eternity, most people do not affirm and should not be affirmed. It is again Deleuze who points out that the “nihil” does not refer to nothing but to a nil evaluation. Human things are trash.

But Deleuze interprets Nietzsche as describing how the originally reactive nihilism becomes selective. The will to power transforms the negation into that which affirms whatever is not excluded.

However, Fragments is not supposed to provide an answer, since the answer can only be a complete assignment of values to everything. There is no point, as Nietzsche notes, in becoming a victim of conscience, of a belief in history, or societal values. Religion is only an alternative for the retarded or the genuinely mentally ill nowadays.

But Nietzsche himself emphasizes the value of laughter, the value of contempt and despite, the cleansing power of hatred, the necessity of lies. Nihilism, it is something divine when it denies the entirety of being, and is thoroughly perspectival.

Dysgenic fertility (bad breeding) and general intellectual decline are a phenomenon later than Nietzsche. He writes of something similar, though: “There is no solidarity in a society in which there are sterile, unproductive, and destructive elements – which, incidentally, will have descendants even more degenerate than they are themselves”. Heidegger notes that valuations disappear when the manner of thinking that created them disappears. This is why Nietzsche concludes The Will to Power with “Discipline and Breeding” – a new sort of human is required, one that is capable of a new valuation. This does not necessarily mean eugenics, but maybe something like the process of intellectual asceticism to which I alluded earlier.

Chesler writes in an age where the loss of dignity described by Nietzsche has become exacerbated, the new humans are even trashier and more laughable, as he anticipated. What is needed is not the enfeebled passive nihilism of Schopenhauer or the Buddhists, but a transition to an active nihilism that despises, an active nihilism that favors strength of will, a strength of will that helps to destroy all the old impotent nonsense. Fragments is part of this transition.

“The wisdom of nations is not only their skepticism, but also the “free life” of phrases and genres.”
(Lyotard)

Lyotard says that maybe prose is impossible. He points out that it is “tempted on one side by despotism, and on the other by anarchy”. The despotism is achieved by trying to become the genre of all genres (“the prose of popular Empire”), the anarchy by becoming an attempt to produce a disparate blob, an “unregulated assemblage of all phrases”, like a vagabond or, maybe, like Gertrude Stein.

Now I wholeheartedly agree. I hope that this applies to prose poetry, and in fact the only canonical influences I now have are Lyotard himself and Ms. Stein herself. I regard her pieces as basically poetry, revealing the glorious repetitive variability of phrases. Coffee and everything.

Every time I am polysemic I want to say every possible want-to-say. Language should be tested to destruction, on a semantic level. Syntax can go fuck itself.

Prose, Lyotard says, cannot become the unity of all genres, like despotism wants. Nor can it become their zero degree. Prose needs to try to be, he says, the multitude of genres and the multiplicity of their differends. I say that this applies to prose poetry, not just the trashy prose poetry of Baudelaire, but real prose poetry too.

Still, the zero degree is cool too. (He goes on to mention narratives, of course.) Ultimately, prose proper itself should tend to the “deritualized short story” where differends are not dissipated but neutralized. They persist in their contradiction. For (this) “prose is the people of anecdotes” – the oppressor – everything from the cockwombles who produce television shows to the cockwombles who produce psychiatry, nationalism, and religion – will always come up against the free life of phrases and genres in the prose that is the people. The oppressor will come up against revolutionary and innovative prose like that of Jennifer S. Chesler.

Here are two new pieces from our forthcoming The Philosophy of Extremism III – co-written with Jennifer S. Chesler.

Oh, little JenniferIn the differend, something asks to be put into phrases, and suffers from the wrong of not being put into phrases right away.(Lyotard)

Daddy, my pussy burns from the cheap medicine.

It’s called “inexpensive”, and you need to get Daddy off faster to deserve the good stuff.

(What makes demands upon us is not the child as such, it is the words expressing themselves into a sense; she is the referent, the burning pussy is the referent, but there exists as given a disparity in power, an imbalance, where some are used. It is this that is the essence of which every haecceity can be seen to be a fraction. That about which the child remains silent is her desire, is the slow passage of time and her becoming. Daddy is never silent about nothing.)

Oh, little Jennifer, I love it when you are special and hold your wrists all twisted and palsied.

I know, Daddy, it’s sexy. I’m a big girl and I am sexy and I know joined-up writing too.

Ice cream comes after come

When I went to school today, I told Sally how I drank Daddy’s pee from his big willy. She said that the last family that owned her would loan her out to their friends. One time they rubbed sick in her hair.

Daddy! Here was Daddy, in his brand new shiny red Silverado. He looked so handsome.

Is that your Daddy? Sally asked me.
He sure is, i said.

I went running up to the truck. He opened the door, slid over on the seat, and put me in the truck with him. I felt proud. I have the best Daddy in the world.

Jennifer, you know when we get home we can’t eat dinner without some white stuff first.

From your hard thing? I asked.

Yes, my rod. You can swallow as much as you like, if you’re very good.

As a reward, Daddy?

Yes, little Jennifer.

I can’t wait to get home.

Can I get an ice cream before we go home, Daddy?

You drink the white stuff first, and then we’ll see. It’s a waste if you get sick from gobbling my big rod and lose all the ice cream, isn’t it?

We got home very quickly, and sat on the couch. I was on Daddy’s lap. He put his arms around me and squeezed me around the waist.

No, Daddy, I said, and giggled.

He picked me up and put me on the wood floor facing his willy in his big pants. I knew what to do and started sucking like it was a popsicle. I was really in the mood for ice cream. He made some noises like he was dying and a poopy smell with a big fart too.

I had puked in my mouth, and swallowed it when his white stuff came out. I wanted to sit next to him but didn’t want him to smell it because he had warned me about it before, and I really wanted that ice cream.

In all honesty, little Jennifer admitted to herself that she enjoyed vanilla incest. She loved it when Daddy rolled his gross body over hers in bed, grunting and farting, and drove his stiff rod straight up into her tight little pie. She wished he weighed much more, since it felt so good when he pinned her down, smothering her and mumbling that she would always be sleeping here now, she could forget both Mommy and Tammy: they were no longer welcome in Daddy’s big bed. His sweat would mingle with hers as she whimpered in ecstasy. “I don’t care about mommy”, she said, “I want you in me, Daddy.”

I don’t know what vanilla incest is, but Daddy says it’s the opposite of what comes out of our bottoms. I think that’s kind of gross and not at all like chocolate, because it’s poopy. But if Daddy says I like vanilla incest, I want to know what kind of bug tastes like vanilla. He says he doesn’t mean insect, but he doesn’t tell me what he really means. He just takes his big willy, puts it between my legs, and squirts some kind of jelly in me and sticks himself up me. Lately he has been doing the insect thing every night. He is so heavy I can’t breathe but this makes him get more excited so that he sticks his tongue in my ear. He says I prefer when he gets on top and lies flat but his breath is so bad I have to turn my head to the side and think about flowers.

Jennifer is growing older and sometimes dreams of freedom, but she forgets to mention her whimpering groans, she forgets to mention the prison she cherishes, weighted down by Daddy’s brutal flesh and impaled on his length. She dreams that Daddy will eat so much that he weighs four hundred pounds so she can sleep under his pendulous tits, and call him Nan. He would dress like whores did, centuries ago, in a nasty ancient tunic with a rosette trim at the top, and there would be more orgasms, more torture.

Nocturnal Showers

Daddy, I’m cold again.

Oh my god, little Jennifer, you’re blue!

What’s wrong with me, Daddy?

Quick, let me stick it in you. I like it chilled and I’ll lie flat on you so you get warmed up. The pee in my willy comes out very warm too, and I can pee some over you if you’re very good.

Really, Daddy, will you do that for me? Is that a golden shower? Are you going to make me pay?

Here’s a new piece from our next & third volume of The Philosophy of Extremism, Fisting Fiesta.Until then, gentle reader, you are free to purchase the first two volumes of TPoE, Fragments, the masterpiece first novel by Jennifer S. Chesler, as well as various tomes of poems about her by scumbag scrivener McLean. They can be found at this link. Fragments is also available here at Amazon.

Not being dead yet

Chesler and I would assume the forms of flapping skin, night a pizza and Tammy, the sound of Daddy running his fingers over little Jennifer’s skin sleeping as she squirmed waking up and asking who mommy was and why she was dead forever and Jennifer sleeping every night in her bed.

“Daddy, she asked me, why is it big and swollen and makes my tummy slosh around inside me like it was sad?”

She would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer that it was because she would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer.